


We Fall in Flames

by platypi_in_ties



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: College AU, F/M, M/M, Modern, Shenanigans, also published on ffn due to loyalty to my past, and questionable furniture, maybe some reptiles, new year new roomies, romance and suchlike things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:56:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platypi_in_ties/pseuds/platypi_in_ties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, roomates are a blessing hidden behind cracked leather couches and enthusiastic banjo music. Sometimes, even the most cynical can find his light. Sometimes, even marble cracks. Sometimes we find what we need. Sometimes, we fall in love. Sometimes, the memories make the hangovers worth it. Sometimes, the pants just need to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Paradise

### 

Chapter One: Welcome to Paradise

Grantaire stared at the plain brown door before him, double checking the placard on the wall. 436.

Well. This was it.

Apartment 436, 857 3rd street. His home for the next school year.

He hesitated at the door, wondering if his new roommate had arrived yet – some guy named… Calrac? Colby? Grantaire had given up on remembering it weeks ago.

He shifted the large box in his arms to reach for the door and turned the handle. He took a few tentative steps into the apartment, attempting to see over his box.

"Shit!" he yelled, tripping over something and toppling to the floor.

"Nononononononononono!" a voice cried. Grantaire could hear heavy footsteps running towards him, and a loud thump as a large weight fell next to him.

"Damnit…" Grantaire muttered into the wood floor, wincing as he pushed himself up on his elbows to check on the contents of his box. Nothing broken. Good. Grantaire couldn't afford to replace anything.

He pushed himself up fully to a sitting position and turned towards the owner of the other voice.

A young man with a mess of brown curls not unlike his own was sprawled out on the ground, frantically checking over a navy blue electric guitar he had clutched close to his body when he threw himself to the floor to break its fall.

The boy sighed and visibly deflated in relief. "She's okay," he announced. "That's my baby, right there. I call her Roxie." The boy pushed himself to his feet and replaced the guitar on the stand next to the door. So that was what Grantaire had tripped on. He turned back with a smile. "You must be the new guy."

"Like you aren't new, too," Grantaire remarked as he stood as well. "Grantaire," he said, sticking his hand out.

He grasped it and shook it once. "Courfeyrac. Welcome to paradise."

"So that's how you pronounce it…" Grantaire mused. "I've been mentally calling you Kookaburra for the past few weeks."

The man called Courfeyrac laughed. It was an easy laugh, loud and hearty. "Kookaburra. I like it. I've taken the privilege of claiming the first bedroom. It's closer to the kitchen."

Grantaire shrugged. "Cool with me. When did you get here?"

"Bout an hour ago. Come on," he said, grabbing Grantaire's box of brushes and paint. "I'll give you the grand tour."

Grantaire followed, looking around the small room.

"Well, you got the pathetic excuse for a living room here." Courfeyrac gestured towards the room in general which was, with the exception of an unplugged television set and one worn leather lounge chair, completely empty. "You'll notice I took the liberty of moving Rosita in."

Grantaire frowned in confusion. "Rosita?"

"Yes. She's my pride and joy. Your application said you didn't have any furniture, so I figured there'd be more than enough room for my girl." He patted the chair comfortingly. "I've got a couch to move in later too, but that's a two man job so I thought I'd just rope you into helping me when you got here."

"Does the couch have a name too?" Grantaire asked with a smirk.

Courfeyrac smiled. "Not unless you give it one. It's new. Well, new to me. Found it at a yard sale last month. One man's trash…"

He led the way farther into the apartment, Grantaire following with a small grin. Grantaire didn't make a habit out of feeling hopeful, but he allowed himself to feel some cautious optimism towards his living situation.

"On your left, you'll find the Bitchin' Kitchen," he continued, nodding towards the tiny kitchen.

"Really?" Grantaire scoffed, looking at Courfeyrac disbelievingly.

Courfeyrac shrugged. "I heard it on TV. You cook?"

"Passibly."

"You like bacon?"

"Is that a question?"

"Fantastic. Moving on." Courfeyrac nodded to the right and continued down the hall. "My room. Or, Where the Magic Happens. You're gonna want to knock before entering, if you know what I mean."

Grantaire nodded, laughing. "Good plan."

"Bathroom. Always important."

"Always."

"Aaand, your room," Courfeyrac announced, nudging a door open with his foot. It was a small room, about the size of the dorm Grantaire had shared with some guy named Robert last year. "You got a mattress?"

Grantaire nodded. "It'll be a pain in the ass getting it up these stairs though."

"No kidding. Just the thought of four flights of stairs with my couch is enough to tempt me to spend the next year watching TV on the floor. What I'd do for an elevator… Then again, with such high-end living conditions and elegant architecture, maybe an elevator would have been too much. Can't be greedy, you know."

Grantaire laughed, taking in the peeling paint around the window and the crack along the far wall. High-end indeed.

Courfeyrac plopped Grantaire's box down on the bed frame, the only bits of furniture furnished by the apartment. "You planning on bringing any girls back here?"

Grantaire blinked. "I-"

"Or guys," Courfeyrac amended.

"Well it's not exactly a plan, if you know what I mean, but-"

Courfeyrac raised his hands in surrender. "Hey man, no judgment. I'm just saying I'm totally cool with it if you bring people back." Courfeyrac wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I can promise you I will be."

Grantaire laughed, deciding that he could definitely get used to this new roommate.

"Gotta love college, right?" Courfeyrac winked. "Well. That's the tour."

"Pathetically short…"

"That's what I thought. Then again, it's $450 a month… Better than the dorms, though, right?" Courfeyrac made a face. "Okay. Well, I'll leave you to unpack. Just shout if you need help. I'll be… around."

"Thanks," Grantaire called after him.

A few minutes later, Courfeyrac's head popped into the room again. "Hey. Wanna hit the bar when you're done? There's a place not too far from here."

Grantaire smiled broadly. "Perfect."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	2. Of Banjos and Braids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras meets his new roommate.

The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor. Enjolras stepped out and immediately wished he hadn't.

Music was blaring from one of the apartments, so loud that the painting hanging on the wall shook with every other bass line.

Fantastic. Noisy neighbors.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and shifted the cat carrier to the other hand as he started down the hall.

512…514… The music got louder as he traveled further down the hall. 516… 518… Noisy neighbors who enjoyed banjo music, he amended. Even better. An angry mewling was coming from the carrier. Apparently he wasn't the only one against the loud music. 520… 524… Oh no. Oh please no. 526… 528…

530.

"Damnit," he swore under his breath, dropping his head back in exasperation.

Worse than noisy neighbors who enjoyed banjo music: A noisy roommate who enjoyed banjo music. And, apparently, harmonica.

"Why?" he moaned, staring up at the white ceiling.

Well, nothing he could do about it now. Closing his eyes and gathering his patience, he knocked on the door.

Needless to say, the music was far too loud for the knock to be heard.

Enjolras turned the handle and entered the apartment. He winced. The music was even louder inside. He wondered vaguely if his roommate was hard of hearing.

He placed the carrier on the floor and looked around the room, searching for the culprit.

A tall young man walked into the room just then, clad in faded jeans rolled up to his knees and a baggy knit sweater. From the long auburn braid hanging over his shoulder –tied with a ribbon at that- to the bright turquoise slipper-like shoes on his feet to the harmonica solo blasting out of the speakers, this boy seemed like Enjolras' exact opposite.

Enjolras cleared his throat to capture the other man's attention, but he didn't hear him, continuing to dance a bit around what Enjolras assumed was the living area, holding the frame in his hands up to the wall at random intervals as if deciding where best to hang it.

"Excuse me?" he tried, a bit louder. Nothing.

"EXCUSE ME?" he yelled. As luck would have it, the song ended at that precise moment, leaving him yelling into the sudden silence.

The auburn haired boy jumped and almost dropped the frame he held. He turned quickly, so quickly that his braid made a whooshing noise as it whipped through the air.

"Shit!" he breathed, leaning against the wall. "You scared the crap out of me!"

"Sorry," Enjolras said, not sounding all that apologetic. He winced as another song came on, beginning with a spirited banjo lick.

The other man smiled brightly and crossed over to the stereo, turning the music off. Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief – along with, he imagined, everyone else on their floor.

"Are you… Jean Prouvaire?" Enjolras asked, half hoping he'd gotten the wrong room.

"Call me Jehan," the man answered with a smile, crossing back to where Enjolras stood.

"Enjolras," he said, offering his hand for Jehan to shake. Jehan ignored it, however, and pulled Enjolras into a hug. Enjolras awkwardly patted the boy on the back with the hand that wasn't squashed between them.

Jehan pulled away from the hug and Enjolras visibly relaxed. He wasn't a fan of quasi-neo-hippie strangers embracing him within the first five minutes of meeting.

"How was your trip up here?" Jehan asked.

"Not too bad. The place I was staying this summer isn't too far from here, so it wasn't that bad of a drive."

"You didn't go home this summer?"

Enjolras pressed his lips together. Kind as the strange hippie boy seemed, he wasn't keen on sharing the details of his family life quite so soon in their cohabitancy- he was wary to use the term "friendship" so soon, especially considering Jehan's fondness for loud folk music. "No, I didn't."

He was prepared to leave it at that, but he felt rude being so short to him when he looked at him so innocently. "I had an internship with a local humanitarian agency, working with the homeless."

"Awesome," Jehan said with a smile. "That's great. I went home, but I spent a lot of the summer volunteering, myself."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows inquisitively, interest piqued. Though, why he was surprised that such a person as Jehan would volunteer was unknown to him. "Doing what?"

"Tutoring, mostly. For some of the kids around town."

"Why?"

Jehan frowned slightly. "Why? Because education is important to the success of humanity as a whole…"

"Jehan…" Enjolras started with a grin.

"Yes?" he replied hesitantly, looking at Enjolras as if he had gone crazy.

"I think we're going to get along very well."

Jehan smiled brightly and pulled Enjolras into another hug which he reciprocated a bit more warmly, still not one for such affectionate displays from new acquaintances.

"Provided you keep the banjo quiet…"

Jehan slumped slightly, but grinned teasingly. "I'll see what I can do. Well, you've seen the living room. We can go buy some furniture secondhand, if you'd like. I read that you wouldn't be bringing any, and I didn't really have any myself. Dorm rooms, you know? I only have what I owned in the dorm and what's left from my room in my parent's house."

Enjolras looked around the half-furnished room. The stereo had already been set up – as Enjolras was far too aware- along with a simple floor lamp and a small blonde wood end table covered in what looked like black writing.

"Fine with me. We'll get some chairs and a couch or something."

"Awesome." Jehan smiled. "There's a really great thrift store that's around here; they've got great second-hand things for some pretty decent prices."

Enjolras nodded as he looked around the room, envisioning the type of furniture they might buy.

"Come with me," Jehan said, placing what Enjolras could now see was a framed hand-written poem down on the small end table. "I'll show you around."

Enjolras picked up the cat carrier and followed Jehan, watching the long braid swish behind his narrow shoulder blades.

"Here's the kitchen," Jehan said, pointing to the space right off the living room. "It's got a fantastic oven for baking. Do you like to cook?"

"Um…"

Jehan laughed. "Didn't think so. You don't really seem the cooking type. Luckily for you, I make great cupcakes. The bedrooms are down this way."

Enjolras frowned to himself, puzzled, as he followed Jehan down the hall. Banjo music and cupcakes? Really?

"I figured this could be your room," Jehan said, pointing to the first door on the left. "You'll get good sunlight in the morning. Nice and bright. Across the hall here is the bathroom. My showers run a little long -I've got a lot of hair to wash," he explained, catching sight of Enjolras' confused expression, waving his braid playfully in Enjolras' direction.

"And over here," he continued, pointing to the second door on the left, "is my room. It's got a good view of the street. I like people watching. Laundry is down on the first floor. And… I think that's everything important there is to know…"

They made their way back down the hall to Enjolras' room and he pushed the door open, taking it in. It was a fairly sized room, more than enough space for one 22 year old and his bookshelves. A large window faced the east side of the building – Jehan was right, there would be quite a lot of sun – giving him a view of the city. The walls were a nice cream color, easy enough to decorate. Enjolras grinned and nodded decisively, placing the cat carrier on the ground.

"What's in the kennel?" Jehan asked, bending down to get a better look.

"Oh," said Enjolras, bending down to unlatch the door. "Robespierre."

A white cat came streaking out of the cage, more than ready to stretch his legs. He wound around Enjolras' legs and Jehan let out a coo of delight.

"Aww, he's adorable!" Jehan gushed. "Aren't you, little guy?" he asked in a sing song voice as Robespierre sniffed his hand delicately. "You're a handsome boy, aren't you? Aww, you like your ears scratched, huh? You're so soft, aren't you little fella? Yes you are!"

Enjolras stared down at his roommate, torn between horror at the high-pitched baby voice the man was using and disbelief that Robespierre was consenting to be petted by him.

"What?" Jehan asked upon catching sight of Enjolras' face, his voice back to normal, a good octave lower than it had been when speaking to the cat.

"Nothing," Enjolras replied. "Just… Robespierre usually doesn't like most people. Usually just me."

"Oh, 'but Jehan isn't most people' he says. Isn't that right, Robespierre?" Jehan said, switching back to his baby voice as the cat nuzzled up against him, purring. "God, that's a mouthful…" he directed to Enjolras. Then, back to the cat, "Can I call you Pierre? Is that okay, buddy? Do you like that?"

He glanced up at Enjolras as if to ask permission. Enjolras looked between the hopeful-looking face of the man by his feet and the content cat rubbing against him before sighing resignedly. "Fine…"

Jehan let out something akin to a squeal and gently lifted the cat into his arms, babbling nonsensically to it the whole time.

"Well… seems as if you two are getting along just fine… I'm going to go grab some of the rest of my stuff… Don't… Don't get too close to his face," he warned, but too late. Jehan had the cat held up in the air, nose to nose with him. He sighed again, hopelessly. "If he bites off your nose, it's your own fault. I'll be back."

As he made his way down the hall to the front door, he heard Jehan asking "You wouldn't bite off my nose, would you Pierre? It's far too dainty and freckly and cute, huh?"

He rolled his eyes, smiling fondly. Maybe he could get used to his strange roommate.


	3. Monday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac really hates mornings. And Lawrence of Arabia.

Grantaire's alarm went off at promptly 6:30AM. Grantaire's hand promptly slammed on the snooze button.

He groaned and rolled onto his stomach, trying to prolong the time he had in that warm cocoon of blankets before facing his first day of the school year.

The alarm sounded again five minutes later, just as Grantaire was on the verge of falling back to sleep. He hit the snooze button again and buried his face in his pillow. He wasn't really in the mood for school today.

The alarm went off for the third time, and with it an angry grumbling from the other side of the door. Grantaire's door flew open, and he turned his head to see Courfeyrac wearing nothing but a scowl and a pair of boxers covered with little Santa Clauses.

"You look about as shitty as I feel," Grantaire mumbled, peeking out from under the blankets. Corfeyrac's hair looked as if a wild bird had attempted to make a nest out of his curls, and only one eye was fully open, glaring blearily at him. "You do know Christmas isn't for another four months, right?"

"Turn that goddamn alarm off and get the fuck up or so help me I will murder you in your bed."

Grantaire smirked at Courfeyrac's tone and rolled onto his back, pulling the covers up to his chin dramatically. "Not a bad way to go," he mused. "I'm rather comfy here. You think my death would excuse me from class this morning?"

"Get the fuck up, asshole," Courfeyrac growled before turning and stomping down the hall.

Grantaire chuckled to himself as he grudgingly extricated himself from the blankets. "Good morning to you too, sunshine," he called.

"Fuck off," Courfeyrac replied from the kitchen.

"And I thought I was a bad morning person…" Grantaire mumbled to himself. He pulled on the same worn, paint-splattered pair of jeans he had worn the day before and threw the first shirt he grabbed over his head. After three minutes of searching, he finally found his comb, and attempted to tame the mess on his head. Realizing, however, that all his effort did was tease the curls into somewhat of a loose afro, he gave up and chucked the comb carelessly back on the dresser.

He gathered the books and supplies he'd need for his classes that day – Art History, French, and Studio Painting – and joined a slightly-more-pleasant looking Courfeyrac in the kitchen.

"You're a joy in the mornings," he greeted, nudging Courfeyrac's shoulder as he passed him on the way to the coffeemaker.

"Hate mornings," Courfeyrac grumbled into his mug. "Need coffee. No sass before coffee."

"Sass?" Grantaire repeated, amused.

"Yes, sass." Courfeyrac glared at him as he took a seat across the small wooden table and chairs which Courfeyrac had found free on the side of the road and which Grantaire had sanded and painted a few days back.

"You love my sass," Grantaire responded with a yawn.

"Not at the ass crack of dawn."

"Six thirty is hardly the crack of dawn. Disgustingly, ungodly early, yes. Dawn, no."

"Shut up and make us some eggs, will you?"

Grantaire laughed, but complied, quickly whipping up some scrambled eggs and toast. After it had been established that Courfeyrac's cooking abilities extended to cereal, microwavable items, and – strangely- bacon ("Where there's a will, there's a way," Courfeyrac had explained after seeing Grantaire's raised eyebrow), Grantaire had taken over the breakfast cooking duties. His repertoire was hardly extensive, but his eggs were good and really, they weren't too picky.

Having eaten his fill, gulped down three cups of coffee (Grantaire would have been a bit worried were the "coffee" not mostly made up of vanilla creamer), and taken a nice shower, Courfeyrac was back to his usual gregarious self, drumming on the counter enthusiastically until Grantaire was ready to go.

After descending the ever-dreaded four flights of stairs (Grantaire was proud to say that the undertaking had become considerably easier for him since the day he moved in) and a fifteen minute bus ride, they arrived on campus.

"We've got a few minutes before the 8 o'clock… Got anyone you want to meet up with?" Courfeyrac asked, looking around.

"Not really," Grantaire answered with a shrug, not even bothering to look around as he stuck his hands in his pockets, looking the epitome of indifference. Grantaire hadn't bothered to make many friends last year – he couldn't be bothered, really. His roommate wasn't the friendliest man on earth, and Grantaire was content to spend his days at an easel and his nights at a bar with whomever decided to sit beside him. He figured that if anyone had wanted to be his friend, they would have said something.

"Sure?" Courfeyrac asked. When Grantaire nodded, he smiled. "Fantastic. I know… 90percent of the general vicinity. Some more than others, if you know what I mean," he added, waving flirtatiously at a blonde man leaning against the wall, then winking at a tall brunette standing with a group of her friends. Grantaire couldn't even pretend to be surprised. "Oh! I see Bahorel across the way. Come say hi with me. You'll like him." Without waiting for an assent, he had set off across the lawn, trusting Grantaire to follow. Which, after a moment, he did.

"Courf!" the man shouted upon their arrival. They embraced in a tight, masculine hug with approximately seven hearty smacks to the back each.

"Hey, man. I missed you at the bar the other day," Courfeyrac said, punching the man in the arm. "I was gonna show Grantaire here around, have him meet a few people, but no one else was there."

Grantaire feels that he must be missing something, because there had definitely been at least 60 other people in that bar.

"Sorry, I was helping Combeferre and Marius move in. They've got an apartment right here by K and 19th street. You know Combeferre and his addiction…"

Grantaire didn't know how to feel about this admission, but Courfeyrac laughed. "Imagine if the library just closed one day. Took one day off. He'd implode." He turned to address Grantaire. "Combeferre's one of our friends. Huge pre-med nerd. Lives for the university's library. He's pretty chill though. His roommate Marius used to live with me in the dorms last year after he got kicked out by his grandfather. This is Bahorel, by the way," he said. "We met at a bar and have been bosom friends ever since."

Bahorel laughed and extended his hand, exposing the beginnings of a brown tattoo on his upper arm. Grantaire took it and they shook once, firmly. Bahorel was on the short side, only around 5'7", but he made up for it in broadness. He was stocky, with dark eyes and dark hair shorn close to his skull and facial hair that framed his mouth and covered his chin.

"Bahorel, this is Grantaire, my new roommate and drinking buddy."

Bahorel raised an eyebrow with a smirk that caused the piercings at the corner of his eyebrow and lip to glint in the sun. "Can you keep up with him?" he asked Grantaire.

Grantaire snorted. "Easily."

"He could drink me under the table," Courfeyrac admits, sounding a little proud.

Bahorel nods, looking impressed. "Not bad. Nice to meet you."

Courfeyrac checked his watch. "Damn, it's five till and my class is across campus. What do you have first, Bahorel?"

"Ethics with Johnson, down in the Walters building. I'm pre-law," he added for Grantaire's benefit.

Grantaire frowned slightly in confusion. Something about that major did not match up to Bahorel's appearance.

"It's a family thing," Bahorel offered as vague explanation.

"I'll walk with you, my class is over there too," Courfeyrac said. "Grantaire, you good?"

"I'm always good," Grantaire responded with a smirk. "See you around."

Courfeyrac and Bahorel waved and nodded, respectfully, and turned to go to class. Grantaire heard Bahorel ask something about "the next meeting" before they were out of earshot.

At one o'clock, Grantaire's phone began vibrating violently in his pocket. He pulled it out to see messages from Corfeyrac pouring in by the second.

**Courfeyrac: Hey man, you've got a break right now, right?**

**Courfeyrac: Just got out of a screening of Lawrence of Arabia.**

**Courfeyrac: I hate my life.**

**Courfeyrac: You'd think a movie about battles and shit in the Middle East would be bad ass.**

**Courfeyrac: But no.**

**Courfeyrac: At least there were camels…**

**Courfeyrac: And on Wednesday, I get to have the joy of listening to Coggins analyze it for two hours.**

**Courfeyrac: Fuck my life, man.**

**Courfeyrac: As if two hours of way-too-long shots of the desert and awkward dialogue weren't bad enough.**

**Courfeyrac: If you can't tell, I need some recovery time. Meet me at that table near where we talked to Bahorel?**

Grantaire snorted under his breath and began typing.

**Grantaire: I thought that was supposed to be one of the best movies ever made or something**

**Courfeyrac: BEST EVER MY ASS.**

**Courfeyrac: I mean, it definitely had its moments…**

**Courfeyrac: especially for its time…**

**Courfeyrac: BUT HOURS.**

**Courfeyrac: ABOUT SAND! SAND I TELL YOU!**

**Courfeyrac: BORING AS FUCK MAN.**

**Grantaire: Calm down man. It's just a movie**

**Grantaire: Cool. I'll meet you there**

**Courfeyrac: JUST A MOVIE?!**

**Courfeyrac: TRY TWO HOURS OF WATCHING**

**PEOPLE WALK ACROSS A DESERT**

**Courfeyrac: AND THE ENDING WASN'T EVEN WORTH IT.**

**Courfeyrac: Awesome. See you soon.**

**Courfeyrac: If you have food, prepare to share.**

**Courfeyrac: I call any and all potato chips you may have.**

**Grantaire: You watched me pack my food. I have no potato chips. And if I did, I wouldn't**

**be giving them to you. My Ruffles are sacred.**

**Courfeyrac: DAMNIT. MY DAY KEEPS GETTING WORSE.**

**Courfeyrac: YOU HAD ONE JOB.**

**Courfeyrac: On my way. See you there.**

**Courfeyrac: Next time, bring potato chips. xoxo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I just really love Courfeyrac... Welcome everybody! This was a bit of a filler chapter... we'll get some First Sightings next chapter! Let me know your thoughts!


	4. Crappy Coffee and Stalker Sketches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coffee sucks, but the company is good.  
> (And the view is even better)

Grantaire had waited at the table for a good fifteen minutes before giving up on Courfeyrac as missing in action. He'd probably found some shiny new toy to practice his new line on. Grantaire had witnessed him in his element at the bar the other night. He had no idea how Courfeyrac did it. His precious "lines" were really rather horrible, and yet he somehow managed to have them falling at his feet – men and women alike – with just a few words and a smile.

They obviously had never seen him at 6:30 in the morning.

He gathered up his things and stepped into the nearby campus café - within sight of the table, in case Courfeyrac ever decided to show up.

"Hi, what can I get for you?" a peppy blonde girl asked from behind the counter when he walked in.

"Just a coffee, please. Black." He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill.

"Name?" asked a dark haired girl, coming up behind the blonde to grab a cup.

"Grantaire," he answered, presenting the money to the blonde.

She handed him his change. "Just one moment, please."

The dark haired girl reemerged from the back room with his coffee in hand. "Here you go," she said.

He took the cup with a nod of thanks and made his way to a window seat. He unpacked his sketch book and a pencil and stared blankly out at the grassy lawn, sipping his coffee.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned his head to see… well… He wasn't really sure what to call it.

It was a man. A very good looking man. An unbelievably attractive, almost inhumanly attractive man. He was sitting at a table alone, bent over a large book, and furiously jotting down notes in a binder off to his side. His gold curls tumbled over his lean shoulders, casting a curtain over a portion of his angular face. His brows were furrowed in concentration as he flipped through the book with the fervor of a commander looking through battle plans. The sun was shining through a nearby tree, casting a dappled light over the man's face, enhancing the shadows under his cheeks and highlighting his aristocratic nose. His features looked as if they had been sculpted by the world's most talented hands, too perfect to have been created by a mix of genetics and random chance.

Grantaire's fingers itched for a pencil, and before he realized what was happening, he had sketched out a brief profile of the man's face. An opportunity like this could not be passed up. It wasn't every day Grantaire had the chance to draw Antinous in the flesh. Then again, Grantaire thought as he bent closer to the paper in an attempt to capture the strong line of the man's jaw, this man was easily more attractive than any statue in his curriculum.

"Not creepy at all," a female voice commented from over his head.

Grantaire jumped slightly and turned to see the dark haired barista staring down at him, one eyebrow raised, a pot of coffee in her hand.

"I – I was just-"

"Drawing that poor innocent guy like a creeper?" she suggested.

"I – Well… I'm an art student, okay? I see things and I draw them."

"Touchy, touchy. I think you're rather fond of your subject," she said with a smirk, leaning down to inspect the drawing. "Not bad…" She looked out the window at the man to compare. "You caught the tension in his jaw well."

"Are you an art student too?" he asked, pouring a little whiskey from a well-concealed container into his coffee.

"Me?" She laughed. "God no. Stick figures are pushing it for me. Computer science. Art major… Please…" She rolled her eyes and took a seat across from Grantaire. "Hey, hit me up with some of that," she said, reaching for his whiskey.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"What?" She asked, jutting her chin out confrontationally. "Don't look at me like that, I'm on break." She knocked back a large gulp with impressive ease.

He looked awkwardly from the girl, to the man outside, to his sketchbook, not wanting to be rude, but not wanting to pass up the chance to draw the - oh Lord so damn attractive is he even human really how do genetics do that – man sitting at the table, still engrossed in his studies.

"By all means," the girl said with a wry smile, waving her hand in the direction of the window. "Don't let me get in the way of your creeping."

Needing no further encouragement, he bent back over his sketch pad and began to flesh out the mane of curls falling over his face.

"I'm Éponine by the way. Thanks for asking."

"You're welcome," he answered, not skipping a beat. "I'm Grantaire. Thanks for asking."

"He is very handsome…" she mused after a while. Grantaire looked up to see her looking critically out the window, head tilted to one side, eyes squinted as she passed her judgment. "You should go talk to him."

"What?" he asked, coughing slightly into his coffee.

"You're sitting in a shitty college café, drinking shitty college coffee, drawing a damn picture of him without his knowledge," she pointed out, eyebrow raised again. "I think that speaks for itself. Go talk to him."

Grantaire shook his head, shading in the man's jaw line. "Out of my league. And he probably doesn't swing that way."

"You never know unless you try."

"Oh yeah? What's your excuse then? Working in a shitty college café, making shitty college coffee, sitting with a guy who's drawing a damn picture of a man sitting outside without his knowledge?"

"Trust me, your creepy-ass sketching is the most exciting thing that's happened to me since I clocked in."

"What?" he asked in mock incredulity, glancing up at her from the top of his sketchbook. "I was under the impression that you loved your job."

Éponine made a face. "Oh, yes, I live for shitty college coffee."

"Who doesn't?" He put the finishing touches on the jaw line and moved to the dip above his lip. "Why else would you be here?"

"Work study program," she said glumly.

"What kind?"

"The kind where I agree to be the school's slave in exchange for tuition."

He scoffed. "Isn't that a bit extreme?"

"Fine. Indentured servant. I came here as a transfer student from the JC. I basically show up and do any and all jobs they demand of me in return for 'unique opportunities.' AKA the ability to freaking go to school." She rolled her eyes. "Luckily, they've saddled me with this gig for a while."

"Luckily?" he asked, recalling her previous statements.

"My parents used to own a bed and breakfast. I was just born to work in the service industry," she said in a sickeningly sweet voice, smiling with exaggerated falseness.

He snorted and moved on to the shading beneath the eye, glancing over to the man for reference.

"What about you? Starving artist?"

"Basically. My parents don't exactly support my 'risky life choices'. So I have the joy of prostituting my art out to anyone who will pay. Not that many do…"

She nodded appreciatively. "How goes the Stalker Sketch?"

He glared at her from over the sketchbook. "That's not what we're calling it."

"We? Oh, suddenly we're 'we,' are we? I'm honored, truly."

"It's done, that's how it goes," he announced, turning the book for Éponine to inspect.

She leaned in, looking from the sketch to the man and back again. "Impressive," she decided. "That's really good. No BS."

"Éponine, break's over. My turn," called the blonde behind the counter.

"Coming," she called back glumly. "That's Cosette," she muttered to Grantaire. "She lived as a foster kid with my family for a few years when we were little, until she got adopted by Valjean. You know, the fucking _dean_ of the goddamn university. She definitely got the better end of the deal." She rolled her eyes, smiling ironically. "She actually works here for _fun_ ," she whispered, getting to her feet. "Imagine that."

Grantaire laughed as Éponine reached into her apron and pulled out a sharpie.

"What are you doing?" he asked as she grabbed his arm and started scrawling on it.

"You're not as much of a douche bag as the other people who come into this shithole. Plus, I'd like to torment you about your creepy drawing obsession. I like you. Call me or something. We can go grab a drink and I can laugh at you mooning over blondie out there."

"Éponine!" the girl called Cosette called impatiently

"I'm coming, damnit," she snapped back. "Toodles, Grantaire."

Grantaire stared down at the numbers on his arm in mild confusion. Did he just make a friend? Looked like it… Huh… That was new…

He scanned his drawing again. It was good, but it wasn't right. Grantaire sighed. He didn't think he'd ever be able to capture the beauty, strength, and – he had to admit – straight up sex appeal of that man with a pencil.

He turned back towards the window, wanting to drink in the sight of the blond man who took his breath away as long as he could.

But when he looked towards the table, the man was gone. As was his whiskey.

Bitch.

* * *

"Where were you at break?" Grantaire asked as plopped down on the couch. "It was your idea to meet up, remember?"

Courfeyrac grimaced apologetically and went to the kitchen. "I know. I got stopped by my Communications teacher from last year. There's a reason she teaches communication," he said darkly. "She never shuts up."

Grantaire nodded appreciatively as Courfeyrac pressed a beer into his hand.

"How was your day? Anything new and exciting?"

Grantaire thought of the drawing hidden in the middle of his sketchbook. "No, not really."

Courfeyrac shook his head. "Damn disappointment, you are. Did you at least have any good conversations? Weird-ass teachers?"

"I met a girl today," he offered.

Courfeyrac immediately sat up. "Did you 'meet a girl' or did you ' _meet a girl'_?"

"The fuck does that even mean?" Grantaire asked, looking at Courfeyrac like he was crazy. "I met a girl."

"Was she hot?"

"I guess…"

"You guess? That's a shit answer, man. I gotta live vicariously-"

Grantaire rolled his eyes. "Like hell you do."

"…That's beside the point. So, was she hot or wasn't she?"

"She was… I don't know, she wasn't ugly. Just not my type. I don't usually go for brunettes." Plus, she had caught him drawing another man, but Courfeyrac didn't need to know that.

Courfeyrac made a noise of interest. "Brunette, huh? Not bad… What'd you talk about?"

"I don't even know… Her name's Éponine, she transferred here from a JC, she works in that coffee place on campus by the lawn, she stole my damn whiskey, and she's…"

"She's what?"

Grantaire smirked, thinking back to that morning. " _Sassy_."

Courfeyrac laughed. "Sounds fantastic. Feel like introducing me?"

Grantaire shrugged, but agreed.

Needless to say, when Grantaire introduced them the next day, Éponine had enjoyed herself immensely spending the time ruthlessly hacking and crushing Courfeyrac's every attempt at flirtation into dust, and by the end of their break, they were well on their way to becoming best friends.


	5. Of Roommates, Romance, and Rob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is this? Some twelve year old girl's slumber party?

The next few weeks had fallen into an easy routine: Grantaire would wake up to death threats from a mostly-still-asleep Courfeyrac over his alarm, shower, dress, etc, make some form of eggs, hop on the bus, go to class, meet Courfeyrac the Crappy College Café anytime both of them had a break that coincided with Éponine's (or go to the Crappy College Café every break anyways because it seemed that the man from before had many of the same breaks Grantaire did and God he made just as good art material as he did eye candy), finish off his classes, catch the bus home, and finish off his nights either at a bar with Courfeyrac and some of his friends, or at Jehan's apartment, and complete his assignments when he could.

Jehan. And he had thought Éponine had been a strange addition to his life.

He met Jehan in French on his first day. The skinny, long haired man had plopped himself down next to Grantaire, and they'd quickly gone from partnering up in conversational exercises to texting about the latest episode of Game of Thrones as they did homework to the present - with Grantaire sprawled on Jehan's little bed as Jehan read to him out of some book of poetry – without Grantaire really knowing how it was happening.

Courfeyrac and his group from the bar apparently belonged to an even bigger group; a group which gathered together to discuss overthrowing the government and saving the world. For fun. And actually thought they could do it. Pretentious idealists.

Needless to say, Grantaire was not interested in joining his roommate for a night of rousing talks of socialistic utopia, no matter how cool the guys he'd met before seemed. He had better things to do than waste his time and energy on something so pointless. Well, not really, but who was counting?

Point being, Jehan's roommate was apparently out of the apartment a lot, so Jehan had been more than willing to let Grantaire confiscate his bed for a few hours the first time he had texted him, begging for some form of entertainment and an excuse to procrastinate on his art history paper.

Since that night, it had become a regular thing. Jehan's apartment was considerably closer to the school, so on days when Courfeyrac would be going to one of his Stupid Pretentious Meetings, Grantaire squished his way on to Jehan's teal moped and went home with him for a few hours before hopping on the eleven o'clock bus.

Such had been life for the past five weeks.

Tonight was one of those nights. Jehan was curled up in a beanbag with a notebook in his lap and a pen behind his ear, alternating between writing a new poem and talking to Grantaire about whatever came to mind as Grantaire lay on his bed, idly doodling a sketch of the man before him.

Jehan was fun to draw, Grantaire had discovered. He was one of those strange creatures that, while being undeniably male, was undeniably pretty, who had eyes with a tendency to alternate from peacefully dreamy to terrifyingly stormy within seconds, who had both a dainty nose and a strong jaw bone, who had eyelashes that brushed his cheeks - chiseled cheekbones that could cut diamond. He was a person full of contradictions. He blushed at Grantaire's crasser statements, just to turn around and utter worse himself without batting an eye. He went from Shakespearean Sonnets to Poe without skipping a beat. He seemed to be in constant, mild transition between tranquility and ferocity, fluid in a way that transfixed those nearby and challenged Grantaire's pencil. Though perhaps transition was not the right word, for Grantaire could sense the two ever-present in his companion. He was like the river, simultaneously soothing and deadly. Not to mention _all that goddamn hair_. That hair was perhaps his most enthralling quality, falling gracefully over lean shoulders or woven into intricate braids, flowing and billowing like fire or blood. Try as he might, Grantaire had yet to successfully capture the fluid spirit of the man on paper – it was like trying to catch smoke, or hold water in his palms, evasive. Jehan may not have been a blond Antinous bent over textbooks on a table outside the café, but he was artistic gold.

Over the past few weeks, Grantaire had filled nearly his whole sketchbook with sketches and drawings of the two men. He drew the blond stranger to capture his appearance. He drew Jehan to capture his essence. One scorched his blood like fire; the other mesmerized him like water. And so, Grantaire's sketchbook was filled.

"Really though," Jehan was saying, "I don't think I've ever seen him eat anything of substance. It's like he lives on coffee and breakfast cereal."

"Hey, don't knock it till you try it," Grantaire said absently. "Lucky Charms are good. Cereal can last a long time on a budget." Then again, by the looks of the apartment (with the exclusion of Jehan's second-hand items that were obviously bought out of choice rather than necessity), a budget that extreme probably wasn't the case.

"No, I'm talking oats and… I dunno, barley? Wheat?" Jehan shrugged. "Whatever those organic health foods are made of. I mean, I'm all for wheat and stuff, but I don't need them in my breakfast cereals until I'm 40 and middle aged and shit. Captain Crunch or die, my friend."

"Here, here," Grantaire agreed.

"He gets this disappointed look on his face every morning during breakfast like I'm causing him physical, mental, and emotional trauma by eating 'non-nutritious, sugar-filled they-call-that-cereal yadayadayada something-about-corporate-business-etc'."

"And I thought you were the hippie."

"Don't get me wrong, I mean, I agree with him on like 95% of what he says. But he takes it so far. Like… Most angry college students want to 'stick it to The Man', but not him. He lives and breathes to _overturn_ The Man. It's rather terrifying…"

"Mm, yeah, sounds like a winner," said Grantaire.

"But really, he's perfectly fine when he's not focused on my cereal preferences. I wear second hand clothes and a lot of fair trade stuff. We get along just fine." He smiled half-sarcastically and jotted a few lines down on his paper. "Then again, he's not really here much. He's always at school or some protest planning thing."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I don't know. He just walks out muttering to himself about picket signs. I let him be. Don't want to give him an aneurism or something; figured it's best to just wait till he causes one himself so I can't be blamed."

Grantaire rolled his eyes. "He sounds like a high-strung kid who had some fight with his rich daddy and decided to play at Crazy Liberal College Student for the next four years in some sad attempt at 'revenge.'"

"Yeah, that's what I thought too…" Jehan mused. "At first. But no, he means it. Really does. He really believes in it – really wants to change the world and all that."

"What a sweet Disney princess," cooed Grantaire.

Jehan snorted in a highly unattractive manner. Grantaire shot him a look. "Sorry, it's just… That's a great description of him. I'm just imagining little woodland animals coming to help him… I dunno, eat his old man cereal, and him glaring them to death because how dare something be cute and love him."

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. "Quite the roommate."

Jehan shrugged. "I just glare back at him. We've come to an unspoken agreement. He knows he can't intimidate me. People see the hair and the face and think I'm girly or something, so I'm easy pickings." Jehan rolled his eyes, jutting his chin out in a move that reminded Grantaire of Éponine. "As if I can't be a girly badass."

"You go, Glen Coco," Grantaire deadpanned. "Fuck those gender stereotypes."

"I will, thank you," said Jehan sweetly. "How about you? How's your roommate?"

"Fine, as always," Grantaire said with a wave of his hand.

"Still having Friends marathons?"

"Every Sunday. Good television for post-bar-night hangovers and last minute homework, he says."

"He sounds fun!"

Grantaire chuckled lightly. "He is. Highlight of my nights is watching him try to pick people up at the bar. He's got these lines, right? And he fucking works on them all day and makes me listen to them and critique them, so I tell him they're all total shit, but he swears on them and then we go to the bar and he sounds like a total idiot but they fucking work. Like, maybe 8 times out of 10. I don't know how in the hell he does it. He's always got something up his sleeve though. Just once, I'd like to see him speechless."

Jehan laughed. "Is he hot?"

Grantaire thought about it. "I suppose so, yeah. He's not really my type though, you know? But he's apparently everyone else's."

"So have you met anyone here who _is_ your type yet?" Jehan asked, smirking.

"What is this? Some twelve year old girl's slumber party? We gonna braid our hair and paint our nails and talk about boys?"

Jehan rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. Your hair's too short and curly to braid."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

"But I do have some nice black nail polish you might like," Jehan offered, only half kidding.

"I'll pass, thanks," Grantaire chuckled.

"You haven't answered my question," Jehan pointed out. "Have you met anyone?"

"Well… not _met_ , per se…"

Within the space of a millisecond, Jehan had bounded over to the bed and pounced on top of Grantaire. "WHO?"

"Oof! Get off of me, you long haired freak, I can't breathe."

Jehan obediently rolled off of Grantaire and sat next to him on the bed, bouncing slightly. "Who?" he repeated.

Grantaire shrugged. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, 'I don't know'?" Jehan screeched, looking scandalized.

"I mean I don't know his name. I've just seen him around." And sketched a rather disconcerting number of portraits of him, but that was beside the point.

"What's he look like?"

"Um… Tall. Lean. Blonde. Gorgeous…"

"Wow, thanks, R, that's a lot to go on." Jehan rolled his eyes and slumped slightly in disappointment.

"R? Oh, Grantaire, Gand… – very clever, poet boy. I like it." He nodded, impressed.

Jehan grinned, looking pleased with himself. "That was the first thing I thought of when you introduced yourself in French that first day," he admitted. "It took me a while to figure out that you'd actually said Grantaire. But I digress. What else does he look like? I need details, man!"

"I dunno… He's never close enough for me to see the color of his eyes. He's got a strong jaw…. Curly hair… Works on homework outside the café I hang out at during breaks… I honestly don't know anything about him, Jehan, other than the fact that he likes to study out of giant ass books and he's absolutely gorgeous."

Jehan huffed. "That is disgustingly vague. He could be anyone! He could be my roommate, for God's sake!" he cried with a laugh.

Grantaire chuckled. "No, thank you. I like sugary breakfast cereals and fun, thank you very much."

"He's fun!" Jehan defended. "…Kind of..."

Grantaire shot him a skeptical look and went back to detailing Jehan's loose braid.

"You should introduce yourself!" Jehan announced after a minute, clapping his hands decisively. "You never know unless you try! Go grab a coffee and ask if you can join him at his table during your break."

"I feel like he might kill anyone who interrupted his studying; he usually looks pretty focused."

"Mm, hot," Jehan mused appreciatively. "Still! Give it a try!" Suddenly, Jehan's voice rose a good two octaves, causing Grantaire to jump. "Oh, hello there, Pierre! Did you come to say hello to me and R? Such a sweet boy, come here!"

Grantaire turned and watched Jehan scoop up a fluffy white fuzzball and deposit it on the bed.

"The hell is that thing?" he asked.

"My roommate's cat," Jehan answered, his voice muffled by cat hair as he nuzzled into the white fur.

"Pierre?" Grantaire asked incredulously. "Bit pretentious for a cat."

Jehan chortled. "You think that's pretentious? His real name is Robespierre."

"Oh fuck no… Jehan, I hate to tell you this, but your roommate is a freak."

Jehan laughed. "I know. He's a pretty cool freak though, for the most part. What's up with that look?"

"Robespierre," he muttered disgustedly. "I'm calling it Rob. I hate cats…" Grantaire glared distrustfully down at the furry thing.

"Why?" Jehan demanded, sounding scandalized.

"They always seem to hate _me_. I don't do anything to them, but they automatically hate me. See, watch. I'll bet you money." He slowly reached out his hand for the cat to sniff. His hand was still a good foot away when the cat glared at him and hissed viciously. "Demon fluffball," Grantaire muttered darkly, pulling his hand back. "See?"

"That wasn't very nice, Pierre! Say sorry to R!"

"He's a cat, J…"

"Go say hi to him, Pierre. He's nice, he won't hurt you."

"Still a cat."

"Shut up and say hello."

He held the cat towards Grantaire. They glared at each other.

"Hi, Rob," Grantaire offered tentatively after a moment. The cat hissed again, showing sharp teeth. "For the love… I give up."

Jehan looked down at the cat concernedly. "Maybe he doesn't like being called Rob…"

"It's a _cat_."

"So? Cat's have feelings and thoughts too!"

"Speaking of which," Grantaire said, glancing over to the large aquarium against Jehan's wall, "you may want to introduce him to Rick before one of them starts _feeling_ hungry and _thinking_ of murder…"

Jehan's eyes grew wide. "Holy shit. Good point. Come here, Pierre." Jehan slid off the bed and began the process of introducing the two animals.

"And, on this note," Grantaire said after a while, as Jehan's interactions – not to mention voice- with the animals was beginning to creep him out. "I'm gonna leave. Good luck, Animal Planet."

"Bye!" Jehan called, blowing a kiss in his direction.

Grantaire sarcastically caught it and stuffed it in his back pocket, but did so with a grin.

He'd never had a friend like Jehan before. Then again, he thought as he passed a pair of what looked like a large pair of women's floral flats and closed the door in the middle of one of Jehan's more high-pitched animal coos, Jehan was pretty one of a kind.


	6. The Iguana Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan, what the hell?

"Enjolras, for the love of God. You've been talking nonstop for the past two hours. Take a fucking break, for all our sakes."

Enjolras broke off midsentence and glared at Bahorel. He didn't like to be interrupted. And honestly, if they didn't want to hear him talk, Marius shouldn't have brought up universal health care.

"I second the motion," Feuilly offered, raising his bottle in agreement. "We get it. Universal health care is good. No one here is arguing that."

"' _Good_?'" Enjolras spluttered. "Universal health care is more than 'good'; it provides an innumerable amount-"

"Of benefits for the common man. Yes, I am well aware. Not only have you spent the last two hours listing them off and analyzing them for us, I will remind you that I am the one with the most interest in the matter."

"Exactly!" said Enjolras. "There are people who cannot afford health insurance! They are forced to work multiple minimum wage jobs just for the ability to buy food for the week, and-"

"For fuck's sake, Enjolras, you're not playing to the balcony. It's just us. We know this shit already. Save your goddamn speeches for protests and crap. You don't need to tell me the tragic story of the pitiful souls of the lower-working class. I fucking live it, okay?" He raked a hand through his short ginger hair in frustration. "You've got Mommy and Daddy paying for everything. Marius and Bahorel are on the university's health care system. _I_ am the one working three fucking dead end jobs just so I don't have to live in a goddamn box. _I_ am the one who has to make sure I never get sick or injured or anything because I have no insurance and no money. I don't need _you_ talking about it for two hours to know that universal health care is a fanfuckingtastic idea. I get it."

Enjolras opened his mouth to respond, but just at that moment, Courfeyrac stood and, swaying on his feet, ordered a rather over-the-top toast to Feuilly, "accidentally" spilling half of his drink over Enjolras' head in the process with a harshly whispered "Shut up".

Enjolras spluttered and wiped his now drenched and very sticky hair out of his eyes as he made to stand, ready to murder Courfeyrac in the most brutal way possible.

Combeferre came up behind him and clapped a warning hand on his shoulder. Enjolras grudgingly resumed his seat under the pressure of his best friend's grip, glaring daggers at Courfeyrac.

"And on this note I think it's best that the formal meeting be adjourned," Combeferre announced, looking apologetically at Feuilly. "As you were, everybody."

The group breathed a collective sigh of relief and immediately began pulling out playing cards, textbooks, and – in Joly's case – a set of dominoes. Courfeyrac gave Enjolras an unimpressed look and turned to join Feuilly, who was dealing cards to Bahorel in a rather violent way.

"Calm down," Combeferre said quietly, looking down at Enjolras.

"He poured a drink on my head!"

"You were offending Feuilly."

"I wasn't trying to!"

"I know that. But he's got a point, he of all people doesn't need to be told why universal health care should be implemented. He broke two of his fingers today – did you know?" Enjolras looked over and, sure enough, Feuilly's right pinkie and ring finger were bandaged tightly in gauze. "I had to reset them for him. It was a pretty bad break, and I was out of pain meds. But he couldn't go to the hospital because he has no insurance. That's why he's so touchy about it right now. I did the best I could but… really, a doctor would have been better. If his fingers don't set and heal right, he might not be able to work, and if he can't work, he can't eat. He's angry at himself and at the government and at the health care system and at the world in general right now, and I don't think hearing a 'little rich boy' trying to teach him about his own problems was helping."

Enjolras deflated slightly. "I didn't know…"

"Go home, Enjolras," Combeferre said in a kind voice that nevertheless left no room for discussion. "You look a little overworked as it is, and I know you don't like being wrong."

Enjolras glared, catching the amused twinkle in Combeferre's eyes, and tried to respond, but Combeferre cut him off.

"Plus, you're sticky and gross and you reek of alcohol. Go take a shower and go to sleep. For the good of everyone involved."

Enjolras sighed but reluctantly stood and gathered up his things.

Combeferre squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.

"See you tomorrow, 'Ferre." He left without another word.

When he got home, the living room was uninhabited. That was odd…

He checked the kitchen, but it was also strangely hippie free.

"Jehan?" he called. There was no answer. He tried again, a little louder. "Jehan!"

Strange. Usually his roommate was home by the time he got back from his meetings. Shrugging it off with a reminder to himself that Jehan surely had friends and things to do on Friday nights as well, he made his way to the bathroom.

Combeferre was right. He hadn't been sleeping well for the past few weeks, focused on his demanding classes and the upcoming protest in October, and he was – now that he thought about it – dead tired.

He turned on the water without really looking and left to go grab his pajamas. He returned and stepped into the shower, closing his eyes immediately as the hot water poured down on him. He could feel his every muscle relaxing and had just reached that point of utter serenity and lethargy that one often finds in warm showers when he felt something brush his leg.

He started and opened his eyes to see a pair of eyes looking back at him.

He screamed shrilly and nearly toppled out of the shower in his haste to put as much space between himself and the intruder.

A fist began banging on the door frantically. "Enjolras?" came Jehan's frantic voice. "Enjolras, are you okay?"

Enjolras let out another shriek as the intruder advanced on him and scrambled out of the shower, banging his knee against the barrier in his haste. He wrapped a towel quickly around his waist and climbed on top of the toilet.

"Enjolras! ENJOLRAS!" He pounded harder on the door.

"JEHAN, WHAT THE HELL."

"What?" he cried.

"JEHAN!" Enjolras yelled in a panic as the intruder began climbing out of the shower.

"Damnit, I'm coming in!" There was a loud bang as the door flung open, bringing a wild looking Jehan spilling in with it.

"What's wrong?" he demanded. He looked Enjolras up and down in quick assessment, then took a quick inventory of the room.

"WHAT THE HELL, JEHAN?" Enjolras cried, pointing shakily towards the tub.

Jehan followed his gesture and broke in to a laugh. He went over to the tub and calmly scooped the large iguana into his arms, paying no mind to the thick tail that reached down almost to his knee.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" Enjolras demanded with as much indignance as possible for a young towel-clad man, dripping wet, cowering on top of a toilet.

"Rick, Enjolras. Enjolras – well, apparently you've already met Rick," Jehan introduced through fits of laughter.

"What is that _monster_ doing in my shower?" he asked shrilly.

Jehan gasped and began cooing at the scaly thing in his arms. "You're not a monster, are you, Rick? Rick says 'No, I'm very handsome and sweet and lovable! Be my friend, Enjolras!'"

"That is not a Rick, that is an iguana!" Enjolras yelled, never taking his eyes off the humongous lizard.

"He's Rick the Iguana!"

"Rick the Iguana…" he repeated weakly. "What the hell, Jehan…"

"He's sweet! Come say hi!"

"Over my dead body. What the _hell_ was that thing doing in my shower?"

"His name is Rick," Jehan pointed out. "I plopped him in here so I could clean out his aquarium. I didn't expect you home so soon."

Enjolras gulped nervously as the iguana wriggled in Jehan's arms. "How long have you had that thing?"

Jehan paused, looking down at the lizard thoughtfully. "Bout… two years?"

"And you never told me?" Enjolras demanded in a rather embarrassingly high-pitched voice.

Jehan shrugged. "I guess I forgot to tell you."

"Forgot… Jehan, that thing could kill us!"

"No he couldn't!" Jehan insisted, and oh dear God was he seriously _petting_ that monster? "Rick is a good boy, aren't you, Rick!"

"What about Robespierre? I swear to God, Jehan, if that _thing_ touches my cat-"

"I've already introduced them," Jehan said happily. "They get along just fine."

" _What_?"

"You were out, I don't know. Pierre came into my room the other day and R pointed out that they'd better be introduced before one of them kills the other. We've been working on it every night, huh, Rick? He and Pierre are bros now, aren't you?" The iguana flicked its tail, causing Enjolras to scramble yet farther away on the toilet seat.

Enjolras frowned in confusion. "R?"

"Yeah, my friend. The art major? The one whose beer bottles you complain about every other morning?"

Enjolras made an unimpressed hum. "Oh, yes. He sure comes over here a lot…"

Jehan raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Uh… I don't mean… You aren't-… Are you - … Is he-… When you say 'friend'-"

Jehan rolled his eyes and smiled. "I mean 'friend'. He comes over and keeps me company when you go out who-knows-where and his roommate is out at meetings or hooking up or whatever he does."

"Ah, okay. I don't mean - … I mean it'd be fine if he-… I mean, if you-… I mean, I kinda figured, but-… I'm going to shut up now."

Jehan laughed and hiked the iguana higher up on his chest, like some perverse mockery of a small child. "Well, now that you and Rick are friends-" Enjolras snorted in disagreement. "And you aren't being brutally murdered in cold blood-"

"I could have been," Enjolras muttered darkly, eyeing the iguana cautiously. "Keep that thing in its cage."

"Aquarium," Jehan corrected. "I think it's safe for you to get off of the toilet."

Enjolras hesitated, but slowly climbed down and took one cautious step forward.

"Pet him."

" _What_?"

"Pet him. I'm not leaving till you pet him."

"You're out of your mind. There is no way in hell that I'm-"

Jehan gave him a Look and Enjolras immediately stopped talking. It was all fun and games and banjo music until Jehan gave you a Look. Then you knew you were at risk of dying in a very slow, painful fashion. That boy could be downright terrifying when he wanted to be. "Pet him."

Enjolras reached out tentatively and ran one finger down the iguana's scaly back. He shuddered and drew his hand back immediately.

"There, done. Can you take him away now?"

"Aww," Jehan gushed in a mocking tone. "You called Rick 'him'! Baby steps! Just wait; you'll be bros in no time."

"I highly doubt that I will ever become 'bros' with an iguana."

"Famous last words." Jehan moved towards Enjolras, still holding the lizard. "I mean, you've already become shower buddies. I think that speaks for itself."

Enjolras waved his hands wildly, trying to shoo Jehan back. "Nonononono, get it _away_!"

Jehan chuckled and planted a swift kiss on Enjolras' cheek. "Glad you weren't being brutally murdered." He made his way out the door, leaving a mildly disconcerted Enjolras standing, shivering in the middle of the bathroom. He'd become more used to Jehan's rather… _personal_ expressions of affection, but that didn't change the fact that he wasn't yet exactly comfortable with random platonic cheek kisses and good morning hugs. Free Love was not one of Enjolras' Causes. "Have a nice shower!" Jehan called down the hall. "Good luck washing that alcohol out of your hair. I want to hear that story later!"

Enjolras rolled his eyes and shakily went about resuming his shower.

He padded back into the kitchen a few minutes later, scooping Robespierre up protectively on the way down the hall. He made himself a cup of coffee one-handed and went to join Jehan on the burnt orange second hand couch – Jehan had picked it out- in the so-called living room. Jehan was curled up catlike in the corner of the couch, paisley pajama pants so long they nearly covered his toes – the nails of which, Enjolras noted, had been painted electric blue- sipping what smelled like one of his exotic teas as he watched TV.

"What are you watching?" Enjolras asked, plopping down on the opposite side of the couch. Robespierre slid out of his arms, circled a few times, and settled himself between the two men.

"'What Would You Do?'" he answered, looking over at Enjolras in vague surprise. "It's like… Candid Camera meets sociology. What do people do in certain situations, you know?"

"Sounds pretty cool."

They watched in comfortable silence for a while, discussing people's reactions every so often. Enjolras wasn't really all that surprised to find that they agreed every time.

"Can I braid your hair?" Jehan asked as the credits rolled.

"…No."

Jehan pouted slightly, looking simultaneously adorable and ridiculous. "Please? Don't worry, I'm a professional. Your precious hair is in good hands."

Enjolras sighed, but was in such a good mood that he gave in. Between the warm shower – after the Iguana Incident, as it would come to be called -, the hot coffee, and the companionable television watching, he was feeling unusually relaxed and cheery. Jehan's flower child ways were rubbing off on him, it seemed. However, at that moment, Enjolras couldn't be bothered to care.

Jehan sat up and patted the space of couch next to him. Enjolras scooped up Robespierre and switched spots with the cat, leaning back against Jehan's propped-up knees.

He closed his eyes as Jehan began combing his fingers through his curls and weaving strands together.

"So why'd you get home so early?" Jehan asked after a moment. "And what was up with the sticky hair? Did you insult some woman or something?"

Enjolras snorted. "No, it was my friend. I offended one of our other friends on accident and he was trying to get me to shut up. He was right, really. I shouldn't have… I didn't really think."

"What happened?" Jehan asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

Enjolras sighed and launched in to the story. Jehan offered some surprisingly good insight and, by the time Jehan dropped a kiss to the top of Enjolras' head and went off to bed, Enjolras was feeling much lighter than he had in a long time.


	7. Green Eyes and Grandpa Sweaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could it be possible to look that enticing in a cardigan worthy of Mister Rogers?

Courfeyrac was all for musicals, really. If it was societally accepted, he'd happily burst into song whenever he could. Granted, sometimes he did that anyways... Only it wasn't quite the same because all the losers around him never seemed to know the words or choreography.

Yet another unrealistic expectation set by Hollywood to ruin his life. Bastards.

Musicals were cool.

 _The Music Man_ was not.

Honestly, he wasn't even sure what it was about the musical that he hated so much… _Unless "everything" is a viable option.._. Obnoxious… Overly cheerful… "Americana" shit (Please, he'd grown up in the Midwest. He called bullshit.)… Annoying characters… Horrible music numbers… And he'd thought Lawrence of Arabia was bad. At least Peter O'Toole never _sang_ about the hours of sand.

He caught himself humming "Pickalittle, Talk-a-Little" to himself and inwardly kicked himself. "God _damnit_."

That song had been the final straw. He had been game to give the musical a shot, but then… But _why_ did it have to be so goddamn catchy? He kicked a rock in annoyance, cursing again when he stubbed his toe, and continued on his way.

Courfeyrac was halfway across the library quad on his way to meet Grantaire, still fuming over annoying show tunes and his professor's fucked up idea of what constituted valuable cinema when he tripped over something and promptly fell flat on his face in the grass.

"Oh, God, are you okay?" a concerned voice asked from somewhere on his left.

Courfeyrac sighed. Today was definitely not his day. He raised his head slowly, eyes shut in an attempt to hold back the angry tirade threatening to burst forth. "My nose…" he groaned, wiggling it tentatively. It hurt, but not badly enough to be broken. Thank God. Last thing he needed was a nose as crooked as Bahorel's to top off his marvelous morning.

A warm hand pressed against his shoulder blade and he opened his eyes to find – _Well_.

He was about seven inches from the most beautiful face he had ever seen. A strong jaw, chiseled cheek bones dusted with freckles, dark green eyes framed with long eyelashes. _Wow…_

"I…" He trailed off, for once in his life at a loss for words.

"Um…" The green eyed boy didn't seem especially verbose either.

"I – Uh…" Courfeyrac took a deep breath and pulled himself together, sitting up fully and putting more distance between them. There. Fourteen inches was much better for brain function than seven, he decided. "Hi," he finished lamely.

The other laughed quietly to himself. "Are you okay?"

Courfeyrac blinked. He had lost his train of thought in the sight of long locks of auburn hair being blown about in the breeze. "What?"

"You just fell over my legs," the auburn-haired man replied slowly, furrowing his eyebrows in concern. "Are you alright? Did you hit your head?"

"I – No, I'm fine. Sorry, it's just…"

"Just…?"

"Nevermind. Uh… Sorry for falling over you. I wasn't paying attention."

"No problem, no problem," the other said, waving the apology away with one slender, ink stained hand. "Are you sure you're alright? You look a little dazed…"

"That has nothing to do with the head injury," Courfeyrac said without thinking.

The other man blushed and dear God how could it be possible to look that enticing in a cardigan worthy of Mister Rogers?

"Um… Well… You're sure you're not hurt?"

Courfeyrac nodded quickly. "I'm fine. More than fine, really. Um… I'm Courfeyrac," he said, reaching his hand out.

To his immense surprise – and near death -, rather than shake his hand, the other man grasped it gently in his own and turned it, bringing it up to brush a light kiss against Courfeyrac's knuckles.

What was air? How did one breathe? Courfeyrac seemed to have forgotten.

"Jehan Prouvaire," the man said with a smile.

"I… Pleasure to see – I mean meet you. I – I just… Fuck." Courfeyrac took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. "I can't even talk. God damnit, I sound like an idiot. I swear I know how to speak."

The man called Jehan laughed kindheartedly and all Courfeyrac's progress went out the window as Jehan's head tipped back, exposing a pale, smooth neck, and his freckled nose crinkled with mirth. He took another deep breath and tried to laugh with him, but it came out sounding more like he was in pain than anything else.

"You got somewhere to be?" Jehan asked.

Courfeyrac thought of Grantaire and Éponine who would be waiting for him soon with a quick pang of guilt, but quickly brushed it away. Surely, they'd understand. One did not simply pass up an opportunity like this. "No, not really."

Jehan smiled. "Want to sit? There's quite the abundance of grass around. You can have your pick of the best spot," he teased, gesturing around the grassy quad. "But you can't have this one," he amended, leaning back against the tree in what Courfeyrac deduced must have been the position he was sitting in before Courfeyrac came falling and fumbling into his life. "This one's mine."

Courfeyrac grinned and scooted around until he was sitting against the tree as well, as close as he dared to the other man.

"Good choice," Jehan said shyly.

"Sorry to interrupt your – whatever you were doing before I interrupted you," Courfeyrac offered, staring down at the notebook in Jehan's hand.

"Writing." Jehan grinned. Courfeyrac was torn between begging him to stop looking so adorably happy for the sake of his delicate mental stability and begging him to do nothing but smile at him for the next millennia. "And it's fine. I don't mind a break."

"You're a writer? For fun or for a class?" Courfeyrac asked, surprised to find himself genuinely interested.

"Just for funsies," he answered with a shy smile.

"Funsies…" Courfeyrac repeated weakly. "What is it? Action? Mystery? Torrid love affair?"

Jehan blushed slightly. Pink was a good color for him, Courfeyrac thought wildly. "Poetry, actually."

 _Nope. Nope, I'm done. I can't… Poetry? Dear God._ Courfeyrac wasn't usually one for poetry – too flowery and corny and sentimental – but the idea of this gorgeous man sitting under a tree writing fucking _poetry_ 'for funsies' was undeniably hot.

"Poetry?" he asked in an embarrassingly squeaky voice. What the hell was wrong with him? His usually plentiful collection of flirtatious lines seemed to have flown out the window the second he had looked into those green eyes. He cleared his throat. "That's… That's really cool. English major?"

Jehan shook his head. "Sociology, actually. You?"

"Film and Television."

Jehan looked vaguely impressed. "Really? Do you want to make movies or something? Am I speaking to the next Steven Spielberg?"

Courfeyrac shook his head with a grin. "Not unless Spielberg starts doing documentaries."

Jehan made an interested hum. Courfeyrac was hypnotized by the rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he spoke. "You're interested in documentaries? What type?"

"Social, most likely. Maybe some political as well. Something about – you know, the _real_ people out there," Courfeyrac answers. "Not about nature because, no offense, poetry boy, but I really couldn't care less about the fuzz on a leaf-" Jehan looked vaguely indignant as he wove some dead leaves and twigs into…something. "-and not about some famous person's life or some shit like that. Real issues, you know? But none of that pretentious BS about the government or Oprah giving people money and suddenly their lives are saved thanks to some third party who wanted to look like some hero."

Jehan blinked, looking surprised. "You do know how to speak," he remarked with a sly grin. "Sounds fantastic. With my major, I've been focusing on…"

Courfeyrac was so caught up in their conversation -which ranged from politics to society to a demonstration of how to braid hair (which was lost on Courfeyrac as he was mystified by the entire process, deeming it "witchcraft" as he watched Jehan's long nimble fingers swiftly weave his long auburn hair into one long plait)- that he forgot to check the time. It wasn't until Jehan checked an old beat-up leather wristwatch and swore softly under his breath that he realized he had completely forgotten about meeting his friends at the Crappy College Café, and had a good two minutes to make it to his next class – if he was lucky.

"Fuck," he muttered, jumping to his feet. "I – I gotta go."

"Me too," Jehan agreed, standing and shouldering his –dear God was that _floral_?- messenger bag.

"Like five minutes ago," Courfeyrac added, but did not move.

Jehan smiled serenely. "Go on, then."

Courfeyrac did his best to ignore the mischievous twinkle in the other man's eyes and took a few steps towards his next class. A few yards away, he turned and called after Jehan's retreating back. "I – I had a great time talking to you, Jehan."

Jehan turned his head to smile at Courfeyrac over his shoulder. "Me too."

"Do you think we could-?"

"Go! You're going to be late!" Jehan laughed, shooing Courfeyrac away.

"But-"

"Go!" Jehan called back, smiling fondly.

"I – I'll call you?" Courfeyrac yelled.

Jehan stopped walking and turned around, a bright pink blush painting his pale cheeks, full lips pulled up in a shy smile. "Okay."

And with that, Jehan was gone.

Courfeyrac almost ran to his next class, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He slid into his seat just in time for his name to be called and breathed a sigh of relief, followed by a triumphant laugh.

His day had certainly turned around.

Until twenty minutes later, when he realized (with a louder-than-intended swear which gained him more than a few dirty looks) that he had never asked for Jehan's number.


	8. Boy Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goddamnit, he hated when he was right.

"What the hell is wrong with me, man?" Courfeyrac groaned into the pillows, lying face down on the couch in a position of defeat.

Grantaire said nothing as he kicked off his boots and took advantage of Courfeyrac's melodrama to plop down in Rosita unnoticed and without protest.

"I fucking _plan_ for this type of shit, you know? But… But I just looked at him and I couldn't… I drew a complete blank!"

Grantaire smirked, feeling more than a little satisfied that the charming Courfeyrac had apparently been, against all odds, finally rendered speechless. He told Courfeyrac as much, earning him a rather rude hand gesture in his general direction in return.

"Like… Who even… It's not fair, man!" He flipped over onto his back, hugging a pillow to his chest, looking like a petulant child. "I mean, I'm just going by, minding my own business, when BAM. I literally _fell over him_ like a total klutz. And he's so fucking gorgeous, Grantaire, you don't even know. He's got these eyes… and this hair… God, _this hair_ …" He shoved the pillow over his face in exasperation and continued grumbling.

"Uh… What? Sorry, I don't speak the language of your Pillow People."

Courfeyrac shot him a glare. "I said he's smart and funny and I mean, really, who the _fuck_ walks around looking like fucking Sex in a Sweater, kissing people's hands? That is not fair!"

Grantaire snorted. "Sex in a Sweater? Really?"

"We're talking Mister Rogers, man… Like… Minnesota grandpa ugly-ass sweater…"

"Courf, if you wanted an old man, I've got a grandfather who's recently single again and out looking for his fourth hot, young piece of ass," Grantaire offered, chuckling. "How do you feel about cocktail dresses? I think they'd go marvelously with all your leg hair. It'd be a talking point, at the very least…"

Courfeyrac chucked the pillow at his face. It missed and fell to the ground two feet in front of Grantaire's right foot.

"Nice one," Grantaire said wryly.

"I didn't even get his number!" Coufeyrac wailed. "How could I forget to get his number? What if I never see him again, Grantaire? What if he just disappears into like… like, goes frolicking in some far-off fucking meadow of peace and harmony and poetry and ugly sweaters and I never run into him again?"

Grantaire rolled his eyes. "I highly doubt that that will ever – Did you say poetry?"

"Yeah," Courfeyrac said with a weak laugh. "He writes poetry. 'For funsies'. What the hell is that?"

Grantaire chewed slightly on his bottom lip. "Uh-huh…"

Courfeyrac was back to ranting about sweaters and hand kisses and his own stupidity, paying no attention to Grantaire.

Grantaire debated saying something… But no… There had to be plenty of strange ugly-sweater-wearing amateur poets with impressive hair around campus… Right?

And even if there weren't… Did he really want to risk setting Courfeyrac loose on Jehan? He'd seen Courf's pattern of bar conquests first hand over the past few weeks… And while he was aware (very aware) of Jehan's appreciation for the practice of Free Love… He didn't want to risk it quite yet. Jehan was special. Sweet and melancholy Jehan, who made flower crowns and wrote beautifully grotesque poems about death…

No, he decided. If Courfeyrac really was interested in Jehan, he'd go rediscover him himself.

Just then, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out so see a text from – well, who else, really? That was just how Grantaire's life worked.

**Jehan: U free? I need some Boy Talk Time!**

**Jehan: And yes, that's what we're calling it from now on.**

**Jehan: Pleeeaaase?!**

Grantaire resisted the urge to bash his head into the coffee table and typed back a swift "Sure, see ya in a few."

"Hey, Courf?" he asked.

Courfeyrac glared at him and he realized he must have just interrupted another chorus of 'Praise for Ugly Sweaters, feat. Courfeyrac'. "What?"

"Can I borrow your car?"

Courfeyrac frowned, but nodded. "Sure, why?"

"I need to swing by a friend's apartment for a while."

Courfeyrac sighed, but pulled the keys out of his pocket nonetheless. "Fine," he said sorrowfully, dangling the keys in Grantaire's direction. "Leave me in my hour of need. Pay no mind to the sufferings of my soul and the pangs of my heartbreak. I shall wallow here in my misfortune, cursing my fates and the stars that defy me. Just me… And Rosita… All alone… With my sorrow… But don't mind me! I'll be fine. Or, as fine as I can be when I've just had such a gorgeous man ripped out from underneath my fingers by cruel destiny! Never to meet him again… My sorrow knows no bounds. My heart is torn asunder, my-"

"Awesome, thanks," Grantaire said abruptly, having just finished lacing up his boots, and snatched the keys out of Courfeyrac's hands. "Be back in a while."

"- eyes yearn to see him just once more. Yea, truly the world has conspired against me. Cupid is back to his old tricks and has decided to leave me miserable and alone. My one true friend and roommate deserting me in my time of need, but I will persevere! Never mind me, I'll just – Don't you dare crash my car!" he called after Grantaire, his tone shifting abruptly from the airy, melodramatic sighs of his monologue.

Grantaire shot him a sarcastic salute over his shoulder.

"I mean it, damnit!"

The door swung shut behind him.

* * *

"We are not calling this Boy Talk," Grantaire announced as Jehan opened the door to let him in.

"Aww, come on! Why not?"

"Because we aren't twelve-year-old girls, J."

"Thank God…" He rolled his eyes. "I've got a cousin who's twelve… She scares the shit out of me… Quiet in the hall, my roommate's actually home for once and he's very literally up to his eyeballs in papers right now."

Grantaire felt a strange, sudden desire to make as much noise as possible, but he restrained himself. Barely.

He flopped down on Jehan's quilt and Jehan shut the door carefully behind him before leaning against it, sighing dreamily.

"Yes, Sleeping Beauty?"

"That's Princess Aurora to you, peasant," Jehan said without much bite, still smiling at the opposite wall.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. "That bad, huh?" He adopted a mock-serious tone. "Don't let your psycho roommate hear you promoting feudal ideals; he might throw old man cereal in your face."

Jehan ignored him. "I met someone," he confided, blushing slightly.

"Nah, really? I figured you'd called this meeting so we could discuss the current state of the Stock Market."

"Shut up," Jehan said, plopping down next to Grantaire on the bed. "What _is_ the current state of the Stock Market?"

Grantaire shrugged. "Shittastic as usual, I'd expect."

"Always so optimistic…"

"Just one of my many amazing qualities. So." Grantaire took a deep breath and looked up to the ceiling, preparing himself before saying resignedly, "Go ahead. I know you're dying to."

"Oh my God, R! He's fantastic!" Jehan gushed immediately, turning pink with happiness.

"Oh. Cool. Well, now that's settled, I guess I'll just-"

"Sit your ass back down; I am nowhere near finished!"

Grantaire chuckled and lounged back on Jehan's pillows, waving him on.

"So I was just sitting there under a tree like usual, brainstorming a bit, and then this guy falls on top of me, right? So I try to check to see if he's okay, you know, no concussion or anything and… Oh God he's so beautiful… He's got this dark, curly hair and it's so wild and unf I just want to run my fingers through it like you don't even know… And he's got this smile… He's so witty and smart and genuine and sweet and… R, I think he likes me!"

"Is that so?" Grantaire twisted the fringe of the bedspread nervously between his fingers.

"He got all flustered and kept saying he had to leave but he didn't move, and he told me he'd call me back but he never even asked for my number!"

Grantaire grinned, panicking internally. He was right. Goddammit, he hated when he was right. "Problematic…"

Jehan laughed, grinning wide. "It was so sweet though!"

Grantaire barely resisted a scoff. Courfeyrac? Sweet? No, had to be someone else… Someone who looked like Courf and happened to have a story very similar to Courf's… Damnit, there was no way around it.

"That's great…" Grantaire wasn't quite sure what to say.

"And he's so intelligent! We had a whole discussion about the CPS system and he brought up points I'd never even thought of before. I mean, once he stopped stuttering all over himself like an adorable idiot, let me tell you, that man can _speak_. Gah, it was hot… I mean, really. He's drop-dead sexy, smart, well spoken, interested in public policy issues, and he's got an awesome name. _Courfeyrac_ …"

Well shit.

No way out of that one now.

"It just so fun to say… It sounds so… I dunno, _him_ , you know? Kinda a mouthful though… Wonder if he's got any nicknames…"

"Courf," Grantaire supplied without thinking.

Jehan practically jumped on Grantaire's lap. "You know him?"

"Uh…" He debated lying, but those green eyes were so damn hopeful he just couldn't. "Yeah… He's uh… He's my roommate."

"WHAT?!"

A muffled pound shook the wall near Grantaire's head, causing him to jump a bit in surprise.

Jehan rolled his eyes. "I'm being too loud for His Studiousness . But that's beside the point! Is he seriously your roommate?"

Grantaire nodded. "How many people do you know out in the world called Courfeyrac?"

"But… I thought… Didn't you say your roommate went to bars and practiced bad pickup lines on everyone?"

"He does."

"But… He couldn't even speak to me properly when he first sat down! I thought I might have to take him to Health Services to check for brain damage!"

Grantaire shrugged. "I dunno, J… I honestly don't know… You okay?" he asked, catching sight of Jehan's crestfallen face.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I just… I don't know… I didn't think he was like that when I met him…"

Grantaire felt a pang of guilt as he took in the disappointed expression on Jehan's face. "It's not like he's not a great guy," he offered. "He's really cool and fun to be around…"

Jehan's expression didn't change much. He sighed. "Does he know that you know me?"

"No, I wanted to make sure it was really you first…"

Jehan nodded. "Alright… Wait, he mentioned me? What did he – No, never mind, I don't want to know… Damnit… I so didn't get the bar vibe from him…"

"Hey!" Grantaire cried defensively. "Just cuz you go to bars a lot doesn't mean-"

"I know, I know," Jehan said, waving his words away. "But… You know what I mean…"

The door creaked open and a little white fluffy thing slunk in, hopping up onto Jehan's lap.

"Get that damn thing away from me before it claws my eyes out!" Grantaire nearly shouted, scrambling back towards the headboard. "I've still got the cuts on my hand from the other day!"

A door opened and shut down the hall, and footsteps could be heard passing Jehan's room.

"That was because you stepped on his tail! Now say hello like a civil person!"

"Hi, Rob," Grantaire muttered grudgingly, reaching out a tentative hand for the cat to sniff. He hissed and Grantaire drew his hand back quickly, before he had a chance to attack. "Little shit…"

The cat hopped out of Jehan's arms and slowly started advancing on Grantaire, murder in its beady little eyes.

"Nononononono! Back! Rob, back!" He attempted shooing the feline away, to no avail, as Jehan tried and failed to stifle his laughter. "Look, Rob, I know we've had our share of differences -" He jumped off the bed in an attempt to put more distance between him and the cat. "But we're all friends here, right? No need to claw out my eyeballs."

Grantaire heard the door creak open somewhere behind him, but didn't dare take his eyes from the prowling monster.

"Courf?" an unfamiliar voice called into the room. "Oh, sorry, Jehan… I saw my friend Courfeyrac's car parked out front and I was just wondering-"

Grantaire turned, curiosity getting the better of him at the mention of Courfeyrac's name.

He had one moment to catch a glimpse of curly golden hair and a furrowed brow before –

"Aaaahh!" The cat had taken advantage of his moment of distraction to sink its claws deep into Grantaire's calf. "Rob, you little shit! I swear to… Ow, mother of… Fuck, you little… I swear to God, Rob, what the hell did I ever do to you?"

"Jehan, who is this and why is he calling my cat Rob?"

"Why'd your cat fucking attack me is the question we should be asking here," Grantaire snapped through clenched teeth. "Or maybe, why the fuck didn't you get the little shit declawed?"

"His name is Robespierre," the voice huffed. "And I generally regard him as a pretty good judge of character, so the true question is who are _you_?"

Grantaire gritted his teeth against the pain and opened his eyes to retort. He stopped dead.

 _No fucking way._ It was the man from the Crappy College Café. The object of so many of his sketches. Here, in the flesh, glaring at him, petting the white fluff ball in a way that was far more menacing than anything else, and… God, he really was gorgeous.

"Uh…" Jehan said after it had become apparent Grantaire didn't intend to answer any time soon. "This is my friend, Grantaire. The artist? Enjolras, Grantaire. Grantaire, my roommate, Enjolras."

"So you're the one who leaves the beer bottles out," the man called Enjolras said with distaste. "I'm starting to agree with Robespierre."

Jehan kicked Grantaire lightly in the calf – unfortunately the same calf that had just been attacked. Grantaire's eyes watered, but the pain helped bring him out of his reverie.

"What?" he asked, attempting to regain his usual flippant tone. "You going to dig your nails into me too now? Bit forward of you, but hey, whatever floats your boat." He even managed a wink. He deserved a pat on the back for that one. Or maybe applause. Applause was always nice…

Enjolras' glare intensified and Grantaire could now see that they were a stormy grey-blue color and damn but he was hot when he was annoyed.

"What are you doing here?" Enjolras asked accusatorially.

"Threatening Jehan's virtue," Grantaire deadpanned, enjoying the way the blond man's eyes sparked and narrow shoulders tensed. "I'm here to spend some time with my friend. You got a problem with that? Want Jehan all to your own? I mean, I know he's pretty and all, but he's allowed to make his own life choices."

The jaw tensed. Grantaire smirked. "Why do you have Courfeyrac's car?"

Grantaire twitched up an eyebrow. "Stole it."

Enjolras opened his mouth indignantly, at an apparent loss for words.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. "I'm kidding, Goldilocks." The man bristled at the name, leaving Grantaire feeling more than a little self-satisfied. "I'm Courf's roommate. He let me borrow it. Sheesh, you leave a few beer bottles around and suddenly you're profiled as a criminal." He threw his hands in the air dramatically. "The American justice system, everybody."

"Oh, no," Jehan moaned. "Please don't get him started on the justice system…"

"Don't worry, Jehan," Enjolras said, looking down his aristocratic nose at Grantaire. "I wouldn't bother discussing it with present company."

"Enjolras-" Jehan started, but Grantaire cut him off.

"Ooh, present company, am I? What? Scared I'll rip all your wittle arguments to shreds?"

"As if," Enjolras sneered, taking an aggressive step forward.

"Try me," Grantaire shot back with a smirk, stepping forward as well.

"I would rather not waste my breath."

Grantaire smirked even wider, leaning in closer to Enjolras' face. The cat in his arms hissed, but Grantaire hardly noticed, focused as he was on how beautiful Enjolras' eyes were when he was angry, and attempting to keep them that way for as long as possible. "Chicken," he whispered.

His eyes flashed. "I beg your pardon, but I-"

A timer went off next door.

Enjolras huffed. "Study break's over," he muttered to himself.

"You have a study break timer?" Grantaire asked in derision.

"Yes. _I_ have work to do."

"Insinuating that I don't?"

"Well, counting up the amount of evenings you've spent here and the number of bottles you leave behind, I don't think I need to 'insinuate' much."

"Enjolras! The timer!" Jehan reminded him sharply.

Enjolras took one long last look at Grantaire and left the room.

"Nice to meet you, Sunshine!" Grantaire called after him.

The door down the hall slammed shut.

Grantaire chuckled, relaxing the muscles he'd tensed during their argument. "Seems like a nice guy…"

"Oh…my…God…" Jehan breathed, looking at Grantaire disbelievingly. "It _is_ my roommate, isn't it?"

"What?"

"The guy you told me about, from the table during breaks. The one who's always studying. It's Enjolras, isn't it?"

Grantaire shrugged, still staring at the space where Enjolras had stood. "Guess so…"

"Holy shit… It's a small-ass world…"

"How'd you know?"

Jehan scoffed. "Please. You coulda cut through the sexual tension with a knife. I was starting to get worried you two were going to start going at each other right in the middle of my bedroom."

Grantaire scoffed. "As if. He hates me."

Jehan rolled his eyes. "Suuure…"

Grantaire sighed, grinning slightly. "Fuck, he's hot when he's angry…"

Jehan flopped down on his bed, preparing himself for what he predicted was going to be a very long, painful year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, left kudos, or subscribed!   
> As always, let me know your thoughts! Constructive criticism is always welcome.


End file.
